


A Man of Integrity

by MollyC



Series: Not In Kansas [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 6.15 The French Mistake, Barebacking, M/M, Not really RPF, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/pseuds/MollyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So looks like fake me and fake Cas?  Are dating."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Integrity

Dean is literally in the process of emptying his pockets so he can sack out on one of fake Sam's stupidly comfortable sofas when the cell phone rings. He fumbles it in surprise and it goes skittering under the coffee table; he drops and fishes it out and glances at the display, which says _Misha_ and displays a picture of fake Cas. Dean's finger hovers over the answer button and he casts a dubious glance at Sam, who says, “Answer it, we have to lie low.” Which is true, but doesn't mean Dean wants to talk to, well, fake Cas.

But he hits Talk anyway and tries for casual. “Hey, uh, Misha,” he says, wondering what the hell fake Cas wants to talk about at ten o'clock at night.

The voice that answers him is almost right, the iffy quality of cell phone speakers concealing most of the differences in timbre, but the words are _all_ kinds of wrong. “Where are you, sweetheart?” fake Cas says, and Dean feels himself freeze. “Been waiting since I got off set. What, did Singer decide to keep you late?” He sounds a little hurt.

Dean tries to resist, but can't; he covers the phone's mouthpiece and bites out “Son of a _bitch_.” Sam gives him a questioning look and Dean makes a face that promises explanations in a second.

“Jen?” fake Cas says, and seriously, what is _with_ the names in this place? But Dean takes his hand away and says, “Yeah. Um, I'm sorry, man, it's just S—Jared and I got to talking.” He hopes that's a good enough excuse; if fake him and fake Sam don't talk, starting to again might be special or something?

“Oh,” fake Cas says, sounding thoughtful, so apparently he's buying it. “Well, I don't want to keep you from him, it's great you guys are talking at least, but I was really hoping to see you after the last few weeks—you know, not at work.”

Dean had honestly been kind of hoping that Misha was one of those people who calls everybody “sweetheart” or “honey” or whatever—he seemed like that kind of guy—but no, that's not the kind of request you get from a casual acquaintance. Apparently fake him is dating fake Cas.

Not that Dean can fault fake him too much; Castiel is _smokin'_ hot as guys go (or, OK, Jimmy's smokin', the poor bastard), and Misha of course looks just like him.

The problem is, Sam is right; they have to keep up appearances. Which in this case seems to mean going and petting his fake boyfriend's injured feelings. Crap. “Yeah, again, sorry about that,” he says. “I'll finish up. Where are you?” Sam's eyes widen and Dean shoots him a glare to forestall any amusement.

“I'm at home,” says fake Cas, and oh _fuck_. They're _living together?_ Crap. You can get gay married in Canada, can't you? If fake him is married to fake Cas, Sam is never in the world going to let him hear the end of it. All he manages is “Oh,” and then Misha says, “See you when you get here” and hangs up.

Dean just stands there, stupidly fancy cell phone held to his ear. Sam watches him do it for a few seconds and then says, “So...what did he want?” Dean grimaces and folds the phone back up as he replies, “He wants me to come home and spend time with him.”

He always enjoys watching Sam be really surprised, so at least there's that much consolation. “Misha?” Sam says at last. “You're dating _Misha_?”

Dean shrugs. “Unless you can give me a better reason he's calling me sweetheart.” Sam opens his mouth to say “He seems like he could be that kind of guy,” and Dean forestalls it with, “He says he's been looking forward to spending time together outside of work, and when I asked where he was he said _at home_. We're totally dating.” Sam concedes the point with a shrug of his own. “I should go,” Dean says reluctantly.

Sam smirks at him and says, “Yeah, gotta keep our cover.”

“Yes,” Dean says.

“No other reason,” Sam says.

Dean studies his brother for a second. “What other reason would there be?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Sam, still smirking, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Whatever.”

* * *

It seems like kind of a dick move to call the driver at this hour, so Dean calls a cab instead. He has Jensen's wallet, which contains his driver's license and thus home address. When they get there, it's a nice place, an apartment building but Dean can tell from the spacing of the windows that the rooms are large, and there's a doorman and everything. Fake him's place seems to be half of a floor.

He has Jensen's keys in his pocket, and when he gets the door open there's Misha in the front hall. He's wearing a white dress shirt and dark slacks, but thankfully there's no tie or suit jacket or trenchcoat. But he does have two heavy glass tumblers in his hands, and he proffers one, saying, “Hey, babe,” and any last lingering doubts about whether or not this guy is dating fake him vanish.

Dean takes the glass and knocks back half of it (scotch, and decent scotch at that) before he says, “Hey.” He's on edge, wondering what the hell to do now, and the speculative way Misha is eyeing him is not helping at all. So he's a little slow to react when Misha takes a step forward, wraps one hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him down into a kiss.

Dean panics, in that quiet internal way he usually reserves for Sam bleeding; it takes him almost too long to get with the program and start kissing back, but Misha doesn't seem to catch on so that's OK. Dean hasn't kissed a lot of guys, way fewer than he's hooked up with, so the drag of fake Cas's stubble on his face is unexpected, if not precisely unpleasant.

There's no part of it that's unpleasant, really. Misha tastes like scotch and his upper arm is firm under Dean's hand (and Dean searches around till he finds somewhere to put his glass so he can get his other hand in on the action), and he kisses with a wholehearted enthusiasm that really makes Dean want to find out how far he can push this.

He doesn't keep track of how long it is before Misha pulls out of the kiss and gives him a smile. It looks kind of wrong on his face—Castiel's face—but Dean's just rolling with things at this point so he smiles back. “I was gonna ask if you needed something to eat,” Misha says, and Dean flashes on about five different dirty jokes he could make and squashes all of them in favor of grinning and saying, “Nah, I'm good.”

“Well, then,” Misha says, in a voice that's all sex. “Let's go to bed.”

He is clearly not talking about sleeping.

Dean can't really move for a second, but then...why the hell not? Misha obviously has sex with the person he thinks Dean is, and it's not like Dean can't show him a good time. So he just goes along with it when fake Cas takes him by the wrist and says, “Come on,” and starts leading him down the hall. Dean catches glimpses of leather couches in a huge living room and a clean, well-appointed kitchen as they go. The bedroom's big too, with dark sheets on a bed that looks like a king, and Dean only gets a second to look at it before Misha starts kissing him again. It's still just as nice, but Dean is starting to have second thoughts; he's got to at least try to give the guy a chance to back out, so this time he's the one who pulls away from the kiss. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, and curses his phrasing when Misha looks puzzled and replies, “Why wouldn't I?”

“I just, I dunno,” Dean says. There's no really good way to explain at this point, even if explaining wouldn't encourage fake Cas to try and have him committed. Misha raises a hand to Dean's face and rubs his thumb over his lower lip, and it's such a good feeling Dean feels his eyes half-close. Fake Cas has a serious look on his face that Dean is all too familiar with; that's probably why when he speaks, what he comes out with is, “Jesus, Cas.” And one more time he freezes, because now Misha is going to freak...except he doesn't. Instead he breaks into a grin that makes him look practically diabolical (one hell of an achievement on that set of features) and says, “Oh, is that how we're playing it tonight?”

The transformation is _uncanny_. Everything about the flaky actor falls away and instead it's _Cas_ , standing right there in his white shirt and staring into Dean's eyes like he's looking at his soul. “I know what I want, Dean,” he says, the perfect voice; it makes Dean actually physically twitch. Dean has just enough time to figure fake him and fake Cas must play pretend sometimes (kinky) before Misha grabs him by the shirt-collar and they're kissing again. And even that is perfect; gone is the practiced skill, replaced by a whole lot of eagerness and not much technique. Their teeth clash and their noses bump and it's exactly what Dean's always thought kissing Cas for the first time would be like. He takes a mental breath and decides he's gonna play his part too, so he puts his hand on the nape of fake Cas's neck and takes charge.

Cas, fake Cas, is a quick learner. Dean doesn't often spend a lot of time kissing, but this is good, and he's damn proud of himself when fake Cas moves back just enough to speak because he still sounds like Castiel, but he also sounds like he's having trouble getting enough air, and since Dean's having the same problem he's glad to not be alone. “This isn't enough,” fake Cas says. “Dean. Dean, I need...” and he trails off, because of course Cas doesn't know what he needs. As far as Dean's aware, Cas is still a virgin.

“You need to get this off,” Dean says, tugging at fake Cas's shirtsleeve. While he's undoing buttons, Dean shrugs out of his overshirt and then pulls his tee off over his head.

He realizes there may be a problem when fake Cas's hands go still with one button left. He's staring at Dean's chest—no, he's staring at Dean's shoulder, and Dean glances down and there's the scar, the handprint scar that Cas left on him pulling him out of Hell. All his other scars are gone, just like then, but that one remains, the one that's weird and impossible to explain. Dean is trying desperately to come up with _something_ when fake Cas reaches out and puts his own hand down over the print, except not quite; his fingers fall between the finger-marks and he's off on the palm placement by most of an inch, and Dean doesn't understand how he can't see it, but he's clearly just playing his part here—of _course_ Cas would touch that scar—and Dean can work with that. They stare at each other for another few seconds before they fall together, kissing again and shedding clothes like they're being timed at it.

Fake Cas doesn't have shoes on so his slacks go easily and he finishes taking his shirt off, letting both items drop to the floor carelessly. Dean's got boots, still, and Cas—fake Cas—makes a familiar exasperated noise as he pushes Dean back to sit on the bed and kneels to worry the laces. Dean sits there panting and watching the top of fake Cas's dark head, bent over as if taking Dean's boots off is just as important as any battle they've ever fought together.

Finally the boots go and Dean wiggles out of his jeans; fake Cas rises from his crouch to crash into another kiss, brief but thorough. He resists Dean's attempt to follow him when he pulls back and his face is fierce and set when he demands, “Lie down, Dean.”

Dean isn't even sure what he's asking when he stammers out, “Cas, do you, I mean—” Cas cuts him off, repeating, “Lie. Down,” in a tone that brooks no argument; that is the _Close your eyes_ voice, the _Show me some respect_ voice, and Dean doesn't really have any interest in resisting when Cas shoves him in the chest. He catches himself thinking that it's not like he _could_ resist as he goes over backwards, and squashes the thought; this isn't actually Castiel, this is just a guy, and he's probably not actually stronger than Dean. But Dean's caught up in the moment now, so he lets himself fall and worms up the bed until his feet aren't hanging over the edge anymore. “Cas,” he says, and has no idea where to go from there.

Cas, though, does, and he settles between Dean's knees, plants his hands to either side of Dean's head, and leans down to kiss him. The lengths of their bodies touch from thighs to shoulders, but apparently that's not enough for Cas, who grinds his hips down into Dean's; it's very clear that they're both _very_ into this, and Dean breathes out Cas's name in a voice that's perilously close to a moan.

“I want _this,”_ Cas says firmly, speaking into Dean's lips, and Dean smiles and replies, “Yeah, I'm getting that,” and arches his back to get more pressure as his hands settle on Cas's waist. In reply Cas nibbles his way down the line of Dean's jaw and bites, almost hard enough to hurt, at the tendon where his neck meets his shoulder. Then he sits up, leaving Dean's front cold without him; Dean makes a protesting noise but it quickly becomes clear where Cas is going when he takes hold of the waistband of Dean's shorts and slides them down. Dean moves enough to help him, because _more naked_ is a really, really stellar plan, as far as he's concerned. He can’t remember the last time he was this hard, because he's known Cas for coming on four years now and it had never even crossed his mind that he might really get to do this; this has been a matter for his very late-night, most clandestine jerk-off fantasies.

That's as far as the train of thought gets before Cas settles his hands on the spurs of Dean's hips and leans down, and Dean is trying to assemble a sentence that says _You don't have to do that_ when Cas's lips close around his cock and all language deserts him.

Dean’s had a lot of blowjobs in his life; the girls he usually hooks up with aren’t the type to get prissy about oral, the guys even less so though there haven’t been as many of them. It’s not like this is even the _best_ blowjob Dean’s ever gotten; Cas lacks technique, though he’s doing his best to make up for it with concentration. But it’s been kind of a dry spell since Lisa came to her senses and kicked his useless ass to the curb; between fixing Robo-Sam and then worrying about Sam’s wall Dean hasn’t had a lot of time (or inclination, to be honest) for chasing chicks. Plus this is _Cas_. This is even _normal_ Cas, not drugged hippy sex guru Cas. So Dean doesn’t feel too bad about how long it takes him to recover the power of speech, nor about the fact that when he does what he comes up with is mostly a litany of curses, with Cas’s name thrown in just to show that Dean’s paying attention. “Oh _fuck_ yes, Cas,” he pants, hitching his hips up against Cas’s hands. He would like to be watching this, but even if his eyes were open he’d be staring at the wall because he can’t lift his head. He tangles his hands in the blanket and hangs on for dear life. It feels like Cas is trying to suck out his _soul_ , and Dean is more than half inclined to let him.

This goes on both forever and not nearly as long as Dean would like, until he can tell he’s right on the edge and he scrapes together enough presence of mind for politeness; he lets go of his death-grip on the blanket and bats at Cas’s arm and forces out, “Cas I’m gonna” before…well, apparently Cas has technique after all because he does _something_ with his tongue and that is _it_ , that’s all she wrote, and Dean’s shouting but there are no words in it as the world whites out and he is _gone_.

When he comes back to himself Cas is still there; it’s too much with post-orgasm sensitivity and he twitches. Cas releases him and props himself up to meet Dean’s eyes again. Dean musters a smile and says, “Damn. Did you get that from the pizza man too?”

It’s not much of a joke, but Cas’s lips (ever-so-slightly swollen, and Dean is _so_ going to Hell again when he dies for doing this to an angel) twitch anyway, which is about as good as a belly laugh from a normal person. “No,” Cas says, deadpan. “That was from the girl with him,” and Dean laughs in surprise. Then he gets back to business, because one thing Dean takes care not to be is a selfish lover. He presses a thigh up to rub at Cas’s hardon, still confined in his briefs, and says, “You didn’t yet. We gotta fix that.” Cas eases up Dean’s body to lean over him, staring into his damn soul again, and Dean makes himself meet the gaze as he continues, “Tell me what you want, Cas. Because right now, you can seriously ask me for anything.”

There’s a pause in which Dean can practically see the gears turning in Cas’s brain before the angel asks solemnly, “Will you let me in, Dean?” And Dean has to smile, because when a guy’s touched you in the places Cas has touched him, it’s not like anything physical is a big deal.

“I’m a little out of practice,” he says.

“Does that mean yes?” Cas asks, and Dean has never been able to resist being a smart ass so he grins and says, “Let me get this straight—you want me to say yes?” Cas makes the exasperated noise he usually reserves for Dean refusing to listen to him and Sam geeking out, and Dean says, “Yes.” Cas nods once, short and sharp, and kisses Dean again, carefully and for not nearly long enough.

And then he sits up and speaks, and all of a sudden it’s _wrong_ , too light, too high, and Cas says, “Just to be clear, whose name should I be screaming in a few minutes?” and he’s grinning, and Dean’s brain runs into a brick wall. He sputters out, “Mine?” before the reality of the situation reasserts itself.

“Come on,” _Misha_ says, rolling his eyes. “Are we really doing this as Cas and Dean? I’m OK with that, I just want to know.”

Dean takes a second to think it over, but only a second, because damn it. This is the only way he’s ever gonna have this, and the actor just said he doesn’t mind, so why shouldn’t he take what he can get? He says, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s how we’re doing it,” and with no hesitation at all Misha vanishes and it’s all Cas again, head cocked to the side in that way he has when Dean has done something especially fascinating. “Don't move,” he says, and clambers over Dean in the direction of a nightstand.

Dean…doesn’t move. Shoves the knowledge of what’s really happening as far down in his mind as he can—which is pretty far, Dean is a fucking _champion_ at repressing things—and stays exactly where he is. Not that he has any particular inclination to go anywhere, and he really doesn’t want to start an argument over who’s in charge here. Besides it’s Cas’s first time—Dean can let him have the reins, since he seems to have picked up a few things with all that time watching people. Dean can work with that.

Cas comes back with lube and fits himself along Dean’s side like he never wants to be anywhere else. He’s smiling in that understated Cas way that’s more in his eyes than his mouth and murmurs into Dean’s ear, “You fight me in everything else. Why not this too?” And Jesus, that’s not a can of worms Dean wants to open right now, but he can tell he’s not covering very well when he replies, “I'm tired of fighting with you, Cas.” Seems like all they do anymore is argue, and Dean is trying not to remember that Cas _left him_ for a _year_ , because it would be a dick move to start a fight before Cas even gets his out of this deal. It looks like Cas is ignoring that particular elephant too, because he leans in for another kiss. Dean threads a hand through Cas’s thick hair and goes with it for a few seconds, then gets enough room to say, “Be dumb of me to not give you what you want, anyway, right?” He tries to make it light and funny. “When I'm getting something out of it too.”

“Your logic is impeccable,” Cas says, in that tone of voice that means he’s going to let Dean get away with changing the subject but Dean shouldn't think he hasn't noticed, and pops the lube open with his thumb--and that probably shouldn’t be as mind-bendingly hot as it somehow is. This whole thing is actually way hotter than it has any right to be; Dean is having a hard time getting enough of the contrast between Cas’s pale angles and the dark sheets, and he watches with interest as Cas slicks up his fingers. It really has been a while since he’s done this—the kinds of places Dean hangs out, it’s usually easier to cruise chicks than risk having to give an offended homophobe a beatdown—but he’s relaxed already from getting off and, well, it’s Cas. Dean doesn’t even tense at the cool touch of fingers sliding back behind his balls, and he makes a soft pleased sound as Cas slips the first finger inside him. “Thought I might have to talk you through this,” he says, mumbling a little.

“I'm aware of the mechanics,” Cas says loftily. “No matter how naïve you think I am.”

“You're not naïve,” Dean says, though even he’s aware it’s total bullshit; it wouldn’t have surprised him a bit if Cas had demanded a step-by-step primer. Just as well he didn’t, because Dean’s pretty sure he couldn’t get through that without laughing his ass off.

Cas makes his _Really, Dean?_ noise again, but doesn’t say anything; instead he bends his head and closes his lips around Dean’s nipple, and Dean shudders as he bites gently. It doesn’t take long at all before he can add the second finger, and Dean lets himself sink into the slight burn. Then Cas’s fingers brush over _that_ spot and he jumps and pushes his hand into Cas’s hair again, and chuckles when Cas whines, low in his throat and sounding so fucking needy. 

Cas picks up his head and glares, and Dean says breathlessly, “No offense. Just nice I'm not the only one going nuts here, OK?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Cas says, with that little bit of bitchiness that Dean doesn’t like to admit he finds kind of adorable, and Cas grinds against his hip to emphasize that yes, he is fully with the program.

“Yeah,” Dean says, as casually as he can around the way he can’t seem to catch his breath. “Doesn't seem to be hurrying you up much, though. I won't break.” Seriously. He was ready for this like _years_ ago.

“Don't rush me,” Cas says, and Dean decides he’s not going to care that he’s all over the way Cas is rocking the angel of the Lord voice. Besides, Cas stretches over him to suck on his other nipple, so he’s got way better things to think about.

They don’t say anything much for a while; Cas is concentrating in that slightly terrifying way he gets, and Dean just doesn’t feel like scraping together enough brain cells for actual words. He’s perfectly happy to lie here and let Cas run clever fingers over his prostate. By the time Cas seems to think he’s ready, Dean is hard again and pretty sure his brain is just going to melt out of his ears.

When he realizes that Cas is taking his shorts off, Dean says, “Easier if I lie on my front.” It’s not, perhaps, as smooth as he might like, but he’s going to take a pass on feeling bad about that.

“I don’t care,” Cas says after a moment, and Dean is not even a little surprised. Might’ve known Cas would want to see his face. Cas produces a pillow from somewhere and slides it under Dean’s hips, and then he says, “Dean, look at me.”

Of  _course_ Cas wants to do the staring-into-each-others’-eyes thing—they do that all the time anyway, why not while fucking? Dean’s afraid to look, afraid that if he looks the illusion will shatter and he’ll see the man he’s with, not the angel he wants. But he can feel Cas (Misha) watching him, and after a second manages to open his eyes.

And it’s Cas, just Cas, looking like he always looks, that hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and Dean only manages his name as Cas moves forward, in, the head of his dick nudging and sliding in perfectly. Dean doesn’t bottom very often; most guys who’re into the jeans-and-leather-jacket look also assume he’s gonna be topping. But he likes it when he gets it, that feeling of  _full_ that he imagines chicks get all the time. And Cas, Cas is about gone; his eyes are wide and methane-blue and he doesn’t say a word as he bottoms out, pressed into Dean. Dean lets him adjust.

Eventually Cas starts to move, and damn, it’s good, the slide of skin  dirty-sweet and Cas is managing to tag Dean’s prostate about every third stroke, which Dean is not going to argue with even a little. Cas is still not talking, just staring at Dean like he’s never seen anything better, but Dean is more than happy to fill the gap. He says, “Come on, Cas, come on, let it go,” because it’s got to be scary, when you’ve spent your millions of years holding yourself in so much, to feel like you’re going to lose it. The words don’t really matter, anyway, he just wants Cas to hear his voice. Cas’s hand is still slick with the remnants of the lube when he wraps it around Dean’s cock again, and that’s nice, that’s great, Dean will certainly take it, but he’s way more interested in watching the way Cas’s face changes.

Cas shifts and puts his right hand down on Dean’s shoulder again, this time lined up right, and Dean sees the flash of incredulity move over his face, like he had no idea, like it’s just hitting him now what they’re doing, and he gasps out, “Dean,” a plea or a demand, Dean doesn’t know which but it doesn’t matter; he nods and says, “Yes. Just like that, Cas. Come on, you can let go, I've got you. Come  _ on _ , Cas.”

And Cas does, falling onto Dean like he can’t hold himself up any more, which is just insanely hot, shaking  hard, and he’s repeating Dean’s name like a mantra, panting it into Dean’s throat. Dean wraps one arm around him and cards the other hand through Cas’s hair. “It’s OK, Cas,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you, it’s OK.”

It takes a long time for Cas to get control back enough to heave himself off Dean’s chest—not that Dean minded, but he appreciates the polite impulse—and he slumps against Dean’s side bonelessly. Dean resists as long as he can,  perfectly aware talking is going to ruin it, but he knows damn well he can’t really have this, and it’s time for it to be over so he can get back to reality. But he is still Dean Winchester, so what he ends up saying is, “Have a good time?”

The bleary attempt at a glare fake Cas gives him is pretty hilarious (and way too familiar), and his voice is still close to right when he replies, “That was intense,” and gives up on holding his head up. As a rule Dean doesn’t cuddle, but he’s still being fake him, and boyfriends cuddle, right? So he doesn’t try to wiggle away from the weight of Misha’s head on his shoulder.

He cannot, however, resist saying, “I’m an experience.”

Misha pokes him in the ribs and says, “We should take a shower.”

Dean looks at the top of the guy’s head incredulously and says, “Dude, you can’t sit up.” It’s sort of flattering, really. “And I’m gonna be walking funny for a day or two.”

“I can sit up,” Misha protests. “I just don’t want to.”

“Either way, you can't shower while you're doing your best wet noodle impression,” Dean says. He can’t help but be amused when Misha grumbles, “Yeah, yeah. Give me a second.”

And Dean is, after all, a smartass, so he says, “One thousand one.”

This time Misha’s poke hits a really ticklish spot, and Dean makes a noise that he will deny until his dying day if anyone ever asks about it. “Cut it out,” he says sternly.

“Don’t wanna,” Misha says sweetly, and pokes him again in the same spot, and Dean (damn it!) makes the noise again and says, “I’m warning you.” Misha sighs and shrugs and Dean is mollified for the two seconds before the guy shifts and starts tickling him in earnest.

That is not something Dean is prepared to deal with, so he grabs for the actor’s hands. Misha is in good shape, but he’s obviously not trained to fight, and it only takes a few seconds for Dean to get him on his back, one hand pinned to the mattress and the other pressed between their chests. He grins into Misha’s face and says smugly, “You do not get to tickle me, man. Even Sam doesn't get—”

And realizes what he’s saying when Misha’s eyebrow lifts. Dean cuts himself off but it’s too late.

Except then Misha says, calmly, “Even Sam doesn’t get to tickle you?”

He’s not freaking out, he’s not laughing, he’s not protesting that “Jensen” should drop the game; he’s just saying it, and Dean thinks over how their interactions have gone so far, and the penny drops.

“Fuck me gently,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> This is, in essence, a DVD extra for "Art Imitates Life".


End file.
